


Talk Me Down

by 13thDoctor



Series: Angels in America [2]
Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Angels, Angst, Episode Fix-it, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Finale, Season Finale, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Traumatized by his visit to Hell and the loss of his lover, Fiore can only sit at the bus stop, waiting for a sign. Fortunately, he gets much more than that. </p><p>(Or, a 1x10 fix-it)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk Me Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JHarkness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHarkness/gifts).



> I'm in true pain.
> 
> Did anyone watch Talking Preacher? #Confirmed (maybe)?

Fiore sat, and he stared.

 

He wasn’t seeing the road in front of his eyes, but rather the road so far behind him that felt like it was still inside him. Soot, black as the Saint’s eyes, covered his face, and his ears rang with the screams of the damned. The only images in his head were of pain, of his own and others.

Trying to remember how to breathe, he blinked tears away, remembering that he promised he would be strong for DeBlanc.

 

But then he recalled the sound that gun made when its cruel bullet dug its way into DeBlanc’s skull, and another whimper escaped his lips. His unseeing eyes stared straight ahead, at tumbleweeds and loose rocks and hills of sands, and he wrung his hands together. Everything felt wrong. His body burned and his heart ached like the bullet had gone through him instead.

 

In a way, he supposed, it had.

 

The angel squinted at the blinding New Mexico sun. In the distance, heat waves danced across the desert horizon. Peering at them, his head flashed to another dust bowl, the dark and dank pit of that preternatural Ratwater. He scrambled to the side of his precious luggage and retched until his organs felt shredded.

 

Fiore spat and sat up again. He stared again, too broken to do much else, too stunned to formulate a coherent plan or reason this through. Angels didn’t die, and DeBlanc had promised they’d come back together. Fiore still remembered the kisses they shared before and after that oath. He remembered the way DeBlanc had held him on their last night on Earth, and on the bus ride to Hell. But DeBlanc hadn’t reinvigorated in that awful place, and he hadn’t been on that putrid bus, or waiting by their abandoned case when Fiore wandered listlessly from his seat and back into the reality he’d come to know in America.

 

After his stomach was emptied, he didn’t move again for another couple hours. Two vultures circled overhead, and a stray dog approached him curiously, looking for handouts or its next meal. Fiore wondered idly if the birds would get to him before the mutt did. At this point, he didn’t care. He felt dead already.

 

It was all his fault, he reasoned, as he allowed himself to collapse against the trunk. The sun scorched his pale face, and he figured he deserved it. If he’d paid better attention to that phone, they could have gone to Heaven, and they would still be together. But _together_ already mocked him, _together_ couldn’t happen when DeBlanc was rotting away where that beast of a man had shot him down.

 

Two more hours passed. Fiore listened to the melody of cars whizzing by, dogs barking, trucks honking, and animals scurrying with disinterest. The whole world seemed duller. He could feel the loss in his bones; he stretched out and pulled at his body, but no respite came.

 

Though time was fleeting and he had no way of measuring it, he knew when another hour elapsed. Angels had always promoted the order and control of timekeeping, after all. There was a slight change in the wind as it picked up speed and flew into a dizzy whirlwind seemingly at random, but it calmed so fast he considered that he could have imagined it. Fiore couldn’t discern the truth from fiction anymore, couldn’t discern what was happening and what was simply a flashback to his time below.

 

And he missed DeBlanc.

 

Stupid, stupid DeBlanc, who loved Fiore with all his heart and did everything to keep their thousand-year old family together. But then Genesis had to run off, and the two angels had to come to Texas of all places, and now Fiore wanted nothing more than to take it all back. They had agreed not to go to Heaven because it would separate them forever, but Fiore had forgotten to mention that his personal Hell was any existence without DeBlanc, and he had been thrown out of that place separate from the other angel anyway.

 

He sat up once more, mouth set in a grim line of defeat, and glanced at the clouds before turning his attention back to the street. A lone figure limped down the asphalt, just a bleary black dot in Fiore’s vision. Irrationally, he conceived it could be the Saint, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. Cold fear ran rampart in his veins, especially in Hell, where it had stopped him from lashing out at the man after he hurt DeBlanc. Here on the surface, however, it was warmed by a southern breeze, and he steeled himself for some kind of attack.

 

As the man drew nearer, Fiore’s resolve crumbled. He was no match for the most ruthless killer known to mankind, and he was far too broken from missing DeBlanc to be useful in a fight. So he resigned himself to the same fate until he remembered that DeBlanc would want him alive to bring Genesis back to their care. He scowled. Looking down at the ground, he only allowed the shadow to approach him, following its movement on the sun-dried pavement. Even the dark outline of the Saint’s cowboy hat was visible; he detested every bit of that shadow.

 

No more sounds nor movements were made as the shadow regarded him. Fiore tried not to shake, feeling like a cornered animal. When the man’s hand raised, he flinched, but then it seized his chin gently and invited the angel to look up, and he did.

 

DeBlanc smiled sadly, moving his hand to stroke his thumb across Fiore’s cheek. “Forgive me for taking so long, my dear. Takes a bit longer in Hell.”

 

Fiore tried to speak, but his tongue felt like lead in his mouth and his nerves were raw and his whole body was betraying his mind’s commands. Their eyes met, one pair of overwhelmed blue and one of adoring brown, and Fiore couldn’t hold himself back any longer.

 

An anguished, shuddering sob clawed its way from his lungs; his whole body heaved with the effort of finally reacting to the whole ordeal. He collapsed onto DeBlanc’s chest, tears streaming from eyes that had seen too much. DeBlanc held him closely, both arms wound tight around his lover’s shoulders, humming to him and whispering that everything would be alright.

 

“This is real, right? You’re real?” Fiore asked, hating himself for the question, but he didn’t trust himself now, not one bit. DeBlanc chuckled, that rich laughter that Fiore knew and loved. The angel’s heart stuttered, and he felt DeBlanc’s do the same in his chest.

 

“As real as you are, love.”

 

Hours passed, as did hundreds of cars, time and humans the only witnesses to two men on the side of the highway, holding each other for dear life, supported by each other and one massive suitcase.


End file.
